


Snowflake

by intotheruins



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Falling Castiel, First Kiss, Hypothermia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 07:50:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5531597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intotheruins/pseuds/intotheruins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel gives Dean his grace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snowflake

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write Christmas fluff. I wrote this instead.
> 
> This was edited on 3/29/16.

It's cold.

If Castiel focuses, he can see the patterns in every snowflake. Each one is unique. It astounds him. Billions and billions of them piling up around him, and every single one is different. He finds he can't quite comprehend it. His Father's design is so infinite that even his mind, so much more vast than a human's, can't accept that it could be real.

The pine needles above him are dusted with white, slowly sagging under the weight. Even those simple needles are not the same. Different spots, different lengths, slightly different smells. Thick and earthy, drowning soft and sweet under the sharp, clean chill. The branches bow towards him, so low that Castiel fears they might crack, but of course none of them do. They are strong, just as surprisingly strong as humans.

It's really very cold.

The snow is up to his knees now, and the icy gray sky shows no signs of emptying any time soon. Castiel catches a clump of flakes on the tip of his finger. He's not warm enough for it to melt right away. He looks into it, tries to find each individual flake, and his vision blurs.

It's happening too fast.

The snow makes everything as silent as it is possible to be. Castiel listens, but he can't hear birdsong, or the soft pad of paws. It makes his breathing painfully clear to him. Deep, knife-sharp breaths of cold, clear air, filling spaces that weren't required before. Slow releases, just enough heat to cast a fog in front of his eyes. So silent. Empty. God didn't resurrect Jimmy Novak. Only Castiel, alone in a body that can't contain what was once his true form. It can only hold his soul.

He can't see the patterns anymore.

He sheds one tear. It freezes on his cheek, and burns his skin.

It occurs to Castiel, distantly, that if he doesn't move soon he'll be in trouble. He can no longer fly. His wings failed him when he came here, his grace too weak to support them any longer. It doesn't matter. Just through the trees is a small log cabin. It used to be another hunter's, if he remembers correctly. Sam and Dean have been there for three days. Dean told him last time Castiel joined them for a hunt that they were taking a Christmas vacation. Castiel was glad. They deserved a break. After God raised Sam from the pit, whole and healthy and untouched by the cage, they'd only taken two days off before going right back into hunting. That was six months ago, and Castiel knew even then that he was falling. Kindly, gradually, but falling nonetheless.

There's just a little left. Castiel holds out his freezing hand and catches a small flake. He cups it against his chest, protecting it from the environment as he gently focuses the last of what once made him an angel into its tiny shape. He watches with human eyes as it expands into a star-like shape, roughly the size of a quarter. It glows a faint, shimmering blue. Castiel curls his fist around it, unafraid. Nothing could possibly crush this flake now that the last of his grace lives within it.

_He's so cold._

Castiel hisses through clenched teeth and curls tightly into his coat, shocked by the power of the chill now that the last of his defenses are gone. He shivers and then he can't stop, just keeps shaking so hard that his teeth clack together and his knees quiver. Taking a step is the most difficult thing he's ever done. He can feel a burn beginning to spread in the tips of his toes and knows it's a bad sign, but he can't remember why.

He just needs to make it the cabin.

It's slow progress. He can't lift his feet so he shuffles, dragging himself through snow that is now up to his thighs. When he breaks through the trees, the wind cuts into his cheeks and makes him cry out in shock. He hugs himself, clinging to anything that might keep him warm. The snowflake is a gentle pulse against his palm, but there is no heat in it. 

Three stone steps lead up to the door. He doesn't know where he finds the strength to climb them. The door is locked. He pounds it with his fist once, twice, and falls to his knees.

The heavy wood swings open just seconds later, but in his human body it feels like a small eternity. He can't tell whose feet he's looking at, but he hears a rough shout in the vague form of Sam's name, so he assumes it must be Dean. His socks are dark blue, and there are little snowflakes on them. Castiel thinks he smiles, but his face is numb and he can't quite tell.

“Hey.” Strong arms slide under Castiel's and haul him upright. He doesn't think he's ever truly appreciated human strength until now. “Hey, Cas. You with me, buddy?”

Castiel tries to form Dean's name. His tongue is thick and useless, and there is something wrong with his eyes. He holds out his hand instead, no longer shaking because he can no longer feel it.

“Oh shit. Shit, SAM! Hurry up!” Dean shifts him so that he can move one arm, taking what Castiel is offering from his palm. Castiel tries to lift his head, wants to see Dean's face, but he can't remember how his muscles work. He's not entirely sure he ever knew.

“Cas, you better not have just frozen to death to give me a freaking present. Where's your phone? Why didn't you call?”

He lost his phone. He can't remember where. On the last hunt, perhaps. Yes, the last hunt was pixies. All their phones were stolen. He was supposed to get a new one.

Heavy footfalls thunder across the wooden floor. Sam is wearing red socks with snowmen. Castiel chokes out a sob that he thinks was meant to be a laugh.

Sam calls his name, but Castiel can't answer. The cold is still there, wrapped tight right down to his bones, but it seems distant now. He's no longer shaking as strong hands grip him tight and guide him deeper into the cabin.

For a period of time, Castiel is only vaguely aware of his surroundings. Words filter in slowly; he only understands a handful. He hears his name repeatedly. _Worried. Fire._ He can't feel what they're doing to him, but he knows he is safe.

“Cas!”

It's the fear in Dean's voice that wrenches him back into something like consciousness. He's shaking again, hard. His body is trying to generate heat. That's a good sign.

Castiel realizes his eyes are closed, squeezed tightly shut like it will protect him from his new reality. Nearby is the snap and crackle of burning wood, just beginning to pierce the numbness in his limbs. He must be on the floor, though it isn't the hard wood. At least, he doesn't think it is. He drags one trembling hand over what feels like fleece, soft and thick. It would be so nice to just sink into it, to sleep.

“Hey, no!” Something cracks across his cheek and Castiel cries out, sharp and thin. He opens his eyes to find Dean's just inches away.

“You stay awake!” Dean says harshly. “You hear me?”

Something trickles down over Castiel's temple. Another leaks from his eye. It's warm, and wet. Tears, he realizes distantly. That's what's wrong with his eyes.

“Cas?”

“Okay,” Castiel whispers, hoarse. His throat feels raw.

Dean nods once, tight, and starts unbuttoning Castiel's shirt. His coat, jacket, and tie are already in a wet pile by the fire.

“Need you to sit up,” Dean says. “Just a little.”

Castiel tries. He sends the signals required to move his limbs, but none of them respond beyond a weak shift against the rug. Dean must understand because he gets a hand around the back of Castiel's neck and tugs him up enough to start working the open shirt down his shoulders.

“I'm sorry,” Castiel says thickly, but Dean just shushes him.

Once the shirt is tossed over with the rest of his clothes, Dean carefully lowers Castiel back down into the rug. Castiel watches him reach down to start working his fly open, feels the tug of the material against his skin as it's pulled down his legs. Being able to feel it at all is another good sign, even though his shaking his getting worse. His shoes come off with wet sucking sounds, and Dean makes a disgruntled noise as he peels off Cas's socks and finally tosses it all aside. Warm hands curl over the tops of his feet and rub vigorously. Feeling slowly returns to his toes, but instead of the relief of warmth it is a pain so sharp that it makes Castiel hiss.

“Looks like your boxers are dry,” Dean says. He shuffles over so he's on his knees beside Castiel and prods at them anyway. “Yeah, you're good. Guess we'll leave your modesty intact for today.”

He grins down at Castiel. He's scared, and trying so hard not to show it.

“Okay, this is everything I could find!” Sam announces abruptly. At least ten blankets are dumped onto the ground by Castiel's head.

“Holy crap, Sammy, think you got enough?” Dean gripes, but he's already pulling Castiel into a sitting position and snatching up a thick, heavy blanket. It's soft, and Castiel lets out a shuddering sigh when he realizes he's warm enough to feel that.

“Shut up, look how hard he's shivering.” Sam grabs two blankets in one hand and kneels down so he can start wrapping up Castiel's legs. He tucks Cas's feet in so they're snug and tight against the material, and then tosses the second one over him more loosely. “How long were you out there, Cas?”

He shakes his head. He doesn't know. He's lost the ability to precisely track time.

Castiel's shivering slowly, slowly abates under the blankets and the heat of the fire, but it's replaced by an ache so bone-deep that he's crying all over again. Dean roughly wipes the tears away with his thumb. Sam folds him into a massive hug, and Castiel discovers that Sam is very warm. So warm that Castiel quietly begs him to stay.

“'course,” Sam agrees easily. He tucks his long legs under him and settles Castiel in against his chest. “I always run kinda hot. It's great in this kind of weather.”

“Yeah, but you're a real bitch in the summer,” Dean teases. He's rubbing Castiel's legs through four layers of blankets. Castiel can barely feel it, but he doesn't mind. “We stayed in Arizona for a couple of months back when he was a kid, and we had to crank the A/C all the way just to get him to stop whining enough to sleep.”

“Shut up, it's like a million degrees in Arizona.”

Their familiar bickering is comforting. Castiel lets his eyes slip closed, and drifts. He catches snatches of conversation and concern. Sam, he thinks, tells Dean to _let him sleep, it's okay. I think he's out of danger._

When he wakes, there's a pillow under his head. The fire has been built up. Castiel can hear a quiet clinking in the next room, and faintly smell something thick and salty. The ache has faded, persistent but no longer overwhelming. Dean is sitting with his knees drawn up in front of the couch, staring at his open palm.

“Dean.”

Green eyes flick up to Castiel's face. “Hey. You okay?”

Castiel nods. He's tired, but he's warm under all the blankets. More importantly, he's home.

“Where'd you get this?” Dean tips his hand down enough for Castiel to see the flake resting in the center of his palm. “It's really warm. And it, uh...” Dean flaps a hand towards his shoulder, towards the mark Castiel left there when he pulled Dean from hell. “I swear this tingled when you gave it to me.”

Castiel shifts so that he's lying on his side. It takes him a moment, but he manages to wriggle an arm out from under the blankets so that he can touch a finger to the flake. It is warm, warmer than Dean's skin.

“This is a real snowflake,” Castiel murmurs. “It contains the last of my grace. You also have a piece of my grace.”

“Huh. So they're, what, interacting?”

Castiel nods. It's not quite right, but he doesn't have words for the way grace behaves. Particularly not when it's shattered.

He watches Dean swallow, thick and audible. His hand trembles faintly under Castiel's touch.

“So. You're human.”

Castiel nods again. He's afraid to say it aloud, afraid that it will end up being just as fragile as this snowflake once was.

“Did you know?” There's a note of accusation in Dean's tone, and Castiel winces. Dean doesn't like it when the people he cares about don't ask him for help.

“I did,” Castiel replies quietly. “When I was resurrected, I was alone. Jimmy Novak is in Heaven. With a few very rare exceptions, angels aren't meant to exist in empty vessels. Only my soul can exist in... well, I suppose it's now my body.”

Dean's hand is visibly shaking now.

“It was a gentle fall,” Castiel assures him.

“Take it back.” Dean shoves the snowflake against Castiel's chest. “ _Take it back,_ Cas, I can't... you can't just give me a piece of yourself.”

Castiel moves to curl his fingers around Dean's wrist, pressing their palms together over the flake. “I want you to have it.” He pauses. “Consider it a Christmas present?”

Dean snorts. His eyes find Castiel's, wide and a little wild. “I didn't get you anything.”

“I don't need anything in return.” He doesn't. He's home, he's safe, he's warm. He has everything he needs.

“No, just...” Dean makes a strange, strangled sound in the back of his throat. His fingers curl tightly around Castiel's wrist. “Damn it, come here.”

Castiel doesn't so much sit up as allow Dean to haul him upright. The hunter slides up onto his knees and leans forward, and it isn't until his mouth brushes against Castiel's that he really understands what it is Dean is doing. His lips part in surprise and Dean's breath rushes in, warm, almost hot. He watches Dean close his eyes as he flicks just the tip of his tongue against Castiel's bottom lip, and then they slide open again, widen. Castiel sighs softly through his nose and nuzzles in closer.

Their lips make a soft, wet little _snick_ when Dean sits back. He ducks his head and glances up at Castiel through his lashes. Castiel just stares at him, stunned.

“Okay?” Dean raises an eyebrow. “Did I break you?”

“If you did it was very pleasant,” Castiel manages.

Dean laughs and sits back against the couch. He pulls until Castiel lets go of his arm. The angel... former angel... watches as Dean curls his hand into a fist around the flake, and tucks it in against his chest.

“We're not talking about it,” Dean says firmly.

“All right.” Castiel tilts his head. “Will you do it again?”

“You're talking about it.”

Castiel sinks back down into his pillow. He's already tired again, the heat of the fire and the soft pile of blankets luring him back to sleep, but he doesn't look away from Dean even as his lids grow heavy. Dean's eyes narrow in what Castiel thinks is probably supposed to be a glare.

“Yeah,” Dean blurts. “We'll do it again, okay? But we're not talking about it. Go back to sleep. Sam's making soup, I'll wake you up when it's done.”

At the mention of food, his stomach decides to make itself known and growls loudly. It makes him jump, and Dean laugh.

“Why is my body talking to me?”

“It's normal. It just means your hungry.” Dean says the words through a wide grin. Castiel likes how it smooths away the deep lines so often etched into Dean's face. “Go back to sleep.”

Castiel nods, but he doesn't close his eyes. Instead, he watches as Dean opens his palm and carefully runs a finger over the snowflake.

“Don't worry about harming it. It would be nearly impossible to destroy it.”

“Because of your grace?” Castiel nods. “Cool. Cas?”

“Yes?”

“ _Go to sleep._ ”

Castiel smiles, and closes his eyes.

 

~

 

END


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